


Tumblr Prompts And Ficlets

by Shush7



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Random Tumblr Prompts, Smutty Angst, this is not my best writing y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 12:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15864060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shush7/pseuds/Shush7
Summary: On occasion I write short oneshots on tumblr (@workslikeacharmie) based on prompts you lovely people send me. Sometimes I also write smol ficlets. Decided to also share them here, but BEWARE (huge red sign): these are QUICKLY written, unedited, unpolished little things :).1. "Just Semantics" - Liz confronts Armie about Timmy. *smutty angst*2. "Fix Me" - Timmy is tired (and sleeps NAKED, thank you i-D interview). *fluff/angst if you squint*All of this is.. obviously fiction.





	1. Just Semantics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Can you please do an angsty Liz confronts Armie about Timmy? (Anonymous)
> 
> As you can tell, I really.. went my own way with it, lol.

“Armie, I need you to tell me,” she grabs his arm by the elbow, stilling Armie mid-turn and cutting off his way out of the bedroom.

“Did you-,” she swallows heavily, intently staring down at her feet, at their feet before raising her head to look him in the eyes, “have you ever fucked him?”

His breath hitches, feels his mouth go dry.

‘ _So this is it. This is it,’_ he thinks, heart instantly jumping to his throat, beating in a punishing rhythm, each pulsation screaming _‘yes’_ so loudly he is sure she can hear it. She must hear it. Really, his whole body is screaming it.

Screaming that Timmy has made a home in him. That wherever he goes, Timmy is with him. In him. That Timmy is the sun his life orbits around.

If she’s not hearing it, then she must feel it, must have felt it. Felt Timmy there with them, the presence of another beating heart, of another warm body, an even warmer smile, contagious laughter. Of peace, of acceptance, of being loved. There with them, always.

But maybe it’s just Armie who feels it, feels Timmy with him, his voice echoing in every room he has ever stepped foot in, his scent on everything he has touched – and yes, yes that includes Armie –, the softness of his curls, of his cheeks imprinted into Armie’s memory as if he had held Timmy just yesterday.

_God, he hasn’t held Timmy in so long._

Has it been two months or three? He doesn’t know the time in _months_ , instead he has counted the hours, the minutes. The seconds without him, only the memory of them tangled between the sheets on that last rainy morning offering him solace. That, and the promise Timmy had whispered in his ear right before leaving, the promise of “There’ll be no one else,” his voice hoarse from how deep down his throat he had taken Armie just hours earlier, and the promise of “I’ll be back before you know it.”

And there are too many already, too many seconds and minutes and hours that have passed. The number too big to say out loud, not without sounding desperate, not without it hurting more.

Yet despite the time that has passed, Timmy is still there, the shadow of him clear as day to Armie, its shape seemingly even more real than the sole pistachio shells he still occasionally finds under the cushions. Timmy had been there with him and even when he left, he didn’t really leave.

So Armie has been expecting it, the inevitable question with an inevitable answer. A _‘yes’_ , an _‘of course, how could I not have when he was right there, when he was precious and perfect and no one had ever– not before me’_.

Except it still catches him by surprise, the ‘Have you ever fucked him?’, because he was rather expecting a ‘Do you love him?’ or a ‘Have you slept with him?’ To those he would have nothing else to say but _‘yes’_.

But _‘Have you ever fucked him?’_

Armie feels the memories rush back to him, the feel of Timmy’s soft skin against his naked torso, the way Timmy always holds him so tightly as if really trying to climb into him, the way he tries to muffle his moans because he’s embarrassed about being too loud.

Memories of the first time they had given in, Timmy being almost apologetic about enjoying himself, sitting on Armie’s lap and biting into his shoulder when he came all over Armie’s fist. How Timmy had licked the bite mark later, whispered ‘I’m sorry’ into Armie’s neck, then licked his own hand clean because Armie had come all over it too and apparently for Timmy _‘It’s you and I want all of you’_ was a good enough reason to do it.

Memories of stolen moments in Toronto, New York, Los Angeles, Rome, London, even Texas. Hugging Timmy tight, always hugging him tight, then kissing him, his beautiful face, his hair, his neck, leaving a trail of kisses all over his body. Always gentle, always kisses of love rather than kisses of lust. Opening Timmy up with his fingers, never less than three before the main event because Armie would never hurt him, not like that, never like that. Then rocking into his body slowly, the pace languid at first to make sure it was good for the both of them. Languid until Timmy grew impatient, until he clawed at Armie’s back, pulling his body closer, demanding ‘harder’ and ‘faster’ and _‘NOW’_.

 _‘Wow, you really always deliver,’_ Timmy said breathlessly once, blissfully sexed out and snuggling into Armie further.

Memories of taking him against the wall, skinny legs wrapped around his waist, Timmy’s mouth open in what looked like wonder and Armie wishes he could taste that wonder on his lips now because nothing had ever tasted as good.

Memories of Timmy riding him slowly on the bed at dawn, the first rays of light illuminating his pale, delicate body, dark curls all over his face, some plastered on his neck. Armie’s hands travelling all the skin he could reach, cherishing every inch of it, cherishing all of the shaky breaths, all of the quiet moans. Especially cherishing the loud ones.

Memories of Timmy cursing in French when he comes and how he had blushed the first time it happened – shook his head, hidden his face in his thin hands and mumbled _‘I did.. not just._.’. And how Armie had assured him then that he loved it, that Timmy was perfect and he might as well curse in Finnish or Hungarian or even Turkish when he came, yet Armie would still love him. But he did prefer French, because he preferred everything that was _Timmy_.

“Armie?”

He snaps back into reality, detaching himself from the memories.

With a heavy heart he finally answers, “No, I’ve never fucked him.”

_It was always making love. And isn’t that much, much worse?_

Yet he’s not sure whether it counts as a lie. Or maybe it’s just semantics.


	2. Fix Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'m not," Timmy mumbles, eyes still closed, then yawns, covering his face with both hands, rubbing his eyes. Snuggles into Armie further.
> 
> "You're not what?"
> 
> "Sleepin’."
> 
> "Never said you were sleeping."
> 
> "Oh," and it's the most delicate little sound Armie has heard in months (years?). It's so Timmy (not Timothée Chalamet the Oscar nominee, the teenage heartthrob, the man who wears Ackermann suits or Louboutins; it's just Timmy).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timmy has been looking tired lately.
> 
> Also, a new interview in i-D revealed that.. Timmy apparently wears Nothing to bed.
> 
> I find it hard to process both. Especially together. So please excuse this Mess that I wrote in 1,5 hours. Just letting y'all know I still exist in this fandom.
> 
> (Dedicated to all the lovely Anons who have requested me to write fluff.  
> Thank you for reading it over, A. <3  
> And thank you for your unrelenting support, N. <3)

Timmy is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, covered with two blankets, leaning on Armie, cheek pressed against his shoulder. Armie can feel small, warm puffs of air against his neck - they tickle, and he can't help but smile. (He never can help it with Timmy.)

He’s sure Timmy has fallen asleep. He’d arrived merely hours before, directly from the airport after yet another long flight. (Timmy still doesn’t like flying, but he’s doing so well. Armie always tells him.)

Armie runs a hand through Timmy's hair then, chuckles softly to himself because the boy is so far gone he doesn't even react, doesn't even notice. So he simply lifts the bowl of popcorn from Timmy's lap before whispering, "We can finish the movie some other time."

" _'m not,_ " Timmy mumbles, eyes still closed, then yawns, covering his face with both hands, rubbing his eyes. Snuggles into Armie further.

"You're not what?"

"Sleepin’."

"Never said you were sleeping."

" _Oh,_ " and it's the most delicate little sound Armie has heard in months (years?). It's so _Timmy_ (not Timothée Chalamet the Oscar nominee, the teenage heartthrob, the man who wears Ackermann suits or Louboutins; it's just Timmy).

He lifts his head and blinks at Armie, eyes unable to focus and scrunched up even from the soft light in the room. The skin under his eyes is a shade of blue, not even his long lashes can cover it. He looks tired, worn out. Yet he's beautiful, Armie thinks. (But would never _say_. Not like this.)

"God, when did you last get a proper sleep?"

Timmy licks his lips, the movement slow and indeliberate as he's trying hard to work out the answer. (Armie’s glance follows the path of Timmy’s tongue. He wants to kiss him, the corner of his mouth, his pouty lower lip. Kiss just like they had in Crema. With the sun warming his limbs, with Timmy warming his soul. Wants to kiss the skin under his eyes, kiss away the distress, the tiredness. Wants to make it better somehow. Wrap Timmy up in a blanket, press soft lips on his forehead and carry him to bed, run his fingers through Timmy's hair until he falls asleep; lock the door and lock away his responsibilities. Just let him rest until he's bouncing off the walls again, a fiery ball of energy and light.)

"You should just stay here tonight," Armie finally says.

Timmy nods, keeps nodding as he pulls his shirt off right there, with clumsy hands, with eyes practically closed. Armie's sure Timmy's still half-asleep, even more than that, his movements automated. He doesn't dare tell him, "I didn't mean _here_ on the couch. You can have the guest room. I think of it as your room anyhow." He doesn't want to disrupt him, just wants Timmy to finally _sleep_.

Timmy yanks off his socks, his pink little toe getting caught in one of them. Grabs Armie's hand to hold his balance although he's sitting, nudges the sock off with his other foot. It takes three tries and Armie's sure he's never seen anything that's more endearing. More Timmy.

He yawns again, not bothering to stifle it, not bothering to cover it with his hand anymore (he does try with his arm but misses by a long shot). Lies down on the couch and puts his head in Armie's lap before Armie can protest (although he would never).

His curls are a mess, short and almost identical to Elio's. Gone is his long hair, gone is the bowl cut and looking at the freckles on his cheek, on his neck Armie suddenly feels like he's back in Crema, feels like they never even left perhaps. Remembers himself and Timmy watching movies in either of their rooms, Timmy’s head in his lap because that’s just how they were (are?). He’s sure Timmy will never know how much each of those moments meant ( _everything_ ).

There’s a tightness in his heart, a tightness in his throat as Timmy cuddles into him further, scrunches his bare toes and whispers something that is muffled by Armie's T-shirt.

"What?" Armie asks softly (his voice definitely not sounding wet). He doesn't know where to put his hands (can he put them on Timmy's naked shoulders? Is Timmy still cold all the time?).

“‘An you take off m’pants?" His voice still muffled, monotone, on autopilot. (God, Armie has never seen Timmy this tired.)

Then it clicks. Armie sucks in a quick breath, “What?”

“M’pants.” Timmy pushes his hips up.

“No,” Armie _wants_ to say, “God, why don’t you see that I can’t touch you like that, I can’t.” Instead, _forces_ his breathing to stay calm (it's not), reaches his hands down slowly to flick open the button on Timmy's jeans. Pulls down the zipper with shaky hands, the sound echoing off the walls in the quiet room.

He swallows, feels his heartbeat in his throat as he drags the jeans down Timmy's narrow hips (if he touches Timmy's hipbones through the black cotton of his trunks then it's merely by accident; he tells himself that even after the third time), his skinny thighs. He can't reach past Timmy's knees.

"You have to do the rest, otherwise I need you to move your head." ("Please don't move your head," Armie wants to say, "I don't know when I’ll have _this_ again.")

Timmy huffs, sounding displeased even in his barely conscious state ( _how_ is that adorable?). Hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his trunks and before Armie can prepare himself, simply pulls them down, wiggles out of both the trunks and jeans. (Armie's sure he's forgotten how breathing works altogether.)

("I can't sleep if I have any clothes on, it's so restricting." Armie remembers that, but..)

He tries not to stare at the newly revealed milky skin, at the gentle curve of Timmy's ass when he turns to his side.

Armie realizes he hasn't seen Timmy naked since -

_since Crema. (Why does everything lead back to that, always?)_

There are small bruises on his hips, a tiny scar on the inside of his thigh that Armie could swear was not there two years ago. He's grown, too, grown into himself. Limbs long as always, but there's less softness to him now. Even his tummy is smaller, almost not there at all (he needs to tell Timmy to eat more; vows to make soup tomorrow and make sure Timmy eats two full bowls of it).

He keeps looking until eventually realizes that Timmy's breathing has evened out, that three of Timmy’s right hand fingers are stuffed into Armie's jeans pocket (how can his hands be fidgety even when he's practically in a coma?) and Armie's sure he's asleep now. _(Was he even awake at all?)_

He doesn't know what he _can_ , what's allowed anymore. But they did say that “Nothing ever has to change.”

So he allows himself this, a small thing that means everything: runs his hand across Timmy's back, fingers tracing each vertebrae he can reach, then across his arm, shoulder before he covers Timmy with a warm blanket. Adds a second one for good measure since it was there anyway. (And Timmy's always cold, isn't he? "I wasn't in Crema," he said once, but they don't speak of it. Armie had just said, "Must've been the sun." And when Timmy looked him in the eyes and replied, "It is," it might have killed them both a little.).

It's barely 8 pm and he hopes Timmy sleeps at least 12 hours. He strokes Timmy’s cheek with his thumb, curls strands of Timmy's hair around his fingers. ("Why does it make me feel so safe when you pet my hair?" Timmy asked in Crema. And how only it dawned on Armie how much it truly meant to Timmy when the trembling boy in white knocked on his hotel room's door just 2 hours before the Oscars, asking not for a drink as Armie would have but instead, "Can you just fix- my hair is off, isn't it? Can you fix it, please?" And although it was perfect, Armie did fix it. _Him._ )

Armie rests his head on the wooden corner of the couch. It's going to be a long night, he thinks. _Yet he wishes it was longer still._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Your feedback means the world to me :).


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